


Autumn

by CedarTheBarefoot



Series: Up On the Homestead [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Autumn, Canning Beets, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Gardens & Gardening, Gun Violence, Happy to be Alive, Harm to Animals, Homestead AU, Killing, M/M, Making Love, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Preparing For Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-12-26 16:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18285629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedarTheBarefoot/pseuds/CedarTheBarefoot
Summary: John and Arthur are in the midst of preparations for winter. This process includes runs to town for supplies, selling livestock, and stocking the cellar. An old friend of theirs is expected to visit the homestead to take a look at one of Arthur’s horses. The day turns out to be a bit more exciting than they had initially planned. And more violent.





	1. Of Beets and Literature

**Author's Note:**

> This installment of “A Year On the Homestead” turned out more plot-heavy than I had originally intended. Therefore it requires a few chapters. 
> 
> Don’t worry, it’ll still be plenty sexy later on. 
> 
> The books mentioned in this chapter are actual published works of literture, and in period. I recommend them all. 
> 
> As per usual, the age gap between Arthur and John is smaller in my work. Just to make it less squicky.
> 
> I will add tags as needed. I am also marking it as Explicit and with the Graphic Depictions of Violence tag ahead of time just in case.

It was nearly 10 o’clock in the morning. A soft, crisp wind blew outside, easing through the trees. A small fire was burning in the fireplace, keeping a warmth about the house.

A whimper echoed in the quiet. 

The table was covered in jars and cans, sealed and marked for the cellar pantry. The kitchen bench was covered in cooling beets fresh from the pot that still boiled gently on the stovetop. Some of the vibrant root vegetables already had their skins peeled off and were ready for canning. Some weren’t quite there yet.

John Marston had been diligently working on canning for most of the morning. The final harvest was around the corner, and the cellar was close to being stocked. When the snow fell heaviest, there was no safe way to get down the mountain to Whisper Ridge. No way to make any supply runs. Therefore, there wouldn’t be a dull meal or a hungry day this winter if he had anything to say about it. 

He’d just gotten a bit distracted, that’s all.

A hearty groan escaped him. “Ohh, Arthur.”

Arthur Morgan had John crowded up against the kitchen bench. The blond had long since pulled the brunet’s trousers and long pants down to hang about his thighs. He had John’s shirt rucked up to his chest with one hand, and the other kept a steadying hold on his hip. 

He also happened to be down upon his knees with his face buried in John’s groin.

John’s fingers, stained from the beets, curled in the soft, blond tufts of Arthur’s hair. 

The previous day, the two of them had gone down to Whisper Ridge for a supply run, and to complete the sale of a few horses. They’d separated for the better part of an hour. And when they’d found each other again, Arthur had just seen the barber. 

He shaved every week or so, keeping his beard down to stubble. But he got a haircut maybe two or three times a year. It was special. For some reason, John always felt a heat gather in his belly whenever Arthur saw the barber. 

He found every opportunity afterward to run his fingers through the cleanly-cut blond hair. Always stole a moment to caress the smooth jawline. He looked real smart. Handsome. As much as Arthur denied it, John knew people looked at his lover when they were in town. And he relished that it was only he who could have him. 

John gasped, running his fingers over the soft fuzz along the back of Arthur’s head as he eased back and forth on his cock. Sucking. Licking. Humming. 

“Arthur!” John grunted, a shiver running up his spine. “M’close. Close.”

In response, the blond sucked a little harder, bobbing his head a little quicker. 

Arthur knew how John was affected whenever he got a haircut. He’d deliberately caught him in the middle of canning, just to see if he could get away with it. At least he’d had the courtesy to wait until the beets were no longer boiling. But then he’d come up behind John and went about kissing and sucking at the brunet’s nape with a vengeance.

_“Pff, Arthur. Mm...Arthur, c’mon. I’m, ohh...I’m busy. And Graham’ll be here soon.”_

_“Ah, I think I still got plenty’a time to suck your fat, pretty cock, Darlin’.”_

During their trip to town yesterday, they’d run into their old friend Graham Collings and a few of his boys delivering produce to the general store. They’d gotten talking about Benandonner and he had invited the old man up to the homestead to see the horse. They were planning on going hunting together today to see how Benandonner behaved. It was about a ten mile ride from the Collings farm up to the mountain homestead. 

He was supposed to be showing up around 10. 

John had grown compliant, his half-hearted protests silenced with kisses. Now he was just trying to stay on his feet as Arthur sucked him. His thighs were trembling and his knees felt weak. A moan rumbled from the blond as his hand slid lovingly up his lover’s chest. He gagged when John couldn’t help a delirious thrust. 

John’s cock wasn’t quite as long as Arthur’s. But it was thick, and very thoroughly filling Arthur’s eager mouth. His lips stretched prettily about the girth of him. A moan was wrung out of him at the sight alone.

Suddenly, Beau, their bluetick hound who had been put outside while there was canning to be done, started barking. 

John gasped, picked up his head, and looked towards the front door. He heard the distinct sound of horses coming up the trail. And the familiar call of an old man from England. 

“Hello there, Beauregard! Arthur! John! What, ho, lads!”

John looked back down to his lover, and pushed at his shoulders as Beau yipped excitedly outside, “Arthur, they’re here.” But the blond didn’t let up. Instead, he set both hands to firmly hold John’s hips against the kitchen bench and sucked without abandon. A lock of his freshly cut hair fell over his forehead and devilish blue eyes looked up at John.

Gasping, he writhed, and whispered urgently, “Arthur, Collings is, oh my g-ohh god, Arthur, oh my g— !” He quickly covered his mouth to muffle his shouts as he came off. 

Arthur grunted, his own mouth filling with John’s release. He coughed, but swallowed. Suckling gently, he got another wave out of his lover. The man standing over him went rigid, trembling at the overstimulation. Beautiful, delirious sounds got caught up in his throat. Soon after, Arthur took pity on him and very, very gently released his panting lover’s spent cock. 

It was then that he received a good cuff on the side of the head. “Ow,” he grunted, chuckling as he kissed his way up John’s belly and chest before he let his shirt back down. He kissed gently at the side of the brunet’s throat, and up along his cheekbone. 

John tasted himself as Arthur kissed at his mouth. He couldn’t help it, he kissed him back. Just a little.

“Arthur? John? Are you about?” Graham Collings called from outside. 

As Arthur kissed him, he tucked John’s soft cock back into his long pants and then closed up his trousers. It was when his belt was being cinched that John finally opened his eyes and glared at him, murmuring, “Asshole.”

The blond laughed, and kissed the end of his lover’s nose, “Well, at least one of us is now presentable.” He gestured down at his own crotch. John blushed when he saw how painfully hard Arthur was, still trapped in his jeans. Arthur was...a big man...in all regards. There was no hiding it when he was aroused.

“Better go say hello,” Arthur smirked, moving towards the door and looking as if he were reaching for his hat. John grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away, “Wait, you can’t go out there like that!” 

Arthur took a step back and leaned against the wall. With hungry eyes he watched as John stuffed his shirt into his trousers, trying to make himself decent. “Stop lookin’ at me like that,” the brunet growled, blushing.

“Like what?” Arthur asked innocently.

“Like you wanna eat me!” 

“Already did that.” 

John punched him. 

Arthur barked out a laugh, and rubbed at his arm where the blow had landed. A bold gleam came to his eyes. “Brute.” He grunted, leaning into his lover’s personal space and spoke lowly, “Mmh. Now I’m thinkin’ about havin’ you make love to me. Real slow. _Real_ gentle-like. Till I can’t take it no more.” 

John cleared his throat and blushed redder as Arthur reached down to uncomfortably adjust himself in his jeans. There was a rumbling deep in his throat, a sound of arousal.

“For god’s sake, pull yourself together!” He hissed, opening the door and going outside. 

The pine trees still stood out in the crisp breeze, vibrant in green. But the leafy trees were alight with fiery colours. Yellows, oranges, and reds filled the branches, and littered the ground. John liked this time of year. He liked the crunch of the leaves when he collected them for the garden. He loved the cool rain. 

Arthur could take it or leave it. He always seemed to sneeze more when the seasons changed around this time of year. But it was a time to make money. 

“Hey, Graham!” John came out onto the porch and called over to the two horses and riders wandering near the barn. Beau was prancing around, yipping with excitement. The horses ignored him, accustomed to the herding dogs at the Collings’ farm. 

The large blond Belgian turned about and there was Graham Collings, wearing an old green coat and grey hat. The old man adjusted a leather satchel at his hip, “John Marston! There you are. Alright, my boy?”

The other horse, a bay thoroughbred, turned around. Its rider was one of Graham’s sons, maybe seventeen or eighteen. He had his father’s soft jaw, his light brown hair and his piercing grey eyes, all under a black hat. John hadn’t really spoken much with Graham’s younger children. He honestly couldn’t remember the boy’s name even though he knew he’d met him before. Seen him just yesterday in town with Graham in fact.

“Just fine, Graham!” John smiled politely as the two Collings came over and dismounted. The old man scratched Beau around the ears when he came close. 

“I was beginning to think you lot had gone hunting without us,” Graham said, pulling a rolled up quilt from the back of his horse, “Or were taken by interlopers.” 

“Inter...no, none’uh those. ‘Least I don’t think. Sorry about that, doing some canning. Up to our elbows in beets right now.” John showed them his hands. 

“So I see!” Graham chuckled, taking off his buckskin gloves to shake John’s hand. He didn’t seem to mind the red stains. “Michael, this is John Marston. John, this is my youngest son, Michael.” 

“Nice to meet you, Mister Marston.” The boy said politely, also shaking John’s hand. He had a good grip. He seemed bright, like most of the Collings children. There was a strength to him that came from working on a farm, but he was strangely willowy. Like a hard wind might topple him over before he got used to his long limbs. He studied John’s face curiously, and tugged at the brim of his hat, clearing his throat.

John felt a little uncomfortable under the scrutinization. They didn’t exactly talk in intense detail about it, but he knew that Graham and his wife Lenora took no issue with him and Arthur. John even suspected that the two were sharing a bed with their longtime foreman, Old Joe. He figured Graham was genuine whenever he said _“No room to judge, old boy.”_

He just wasn’t sure if that had been passed down to his kids.

“How was the ride up here?” John asked, stalling, not sure if Arthur had composed himself.

“Thought it was going to rain! But it’s held off. Excellent weather for a hunt!” Graham said excitedly, rubbing his hands together. “Oh, Arthur! Good to see you!” He exclaimed, going past John up the stairs.

John froze.

“Good to see you too, Graham,” drawled Arthur.

Young Michael Collings blushed and pointedly averted his gaze. 

John turned around, his gut in knots. 

Arthur stood on the porch, shaking hands with Graham. John glanced at his groin. He certainly wasn’t as erect as he had been a few moments ago. But even the bastard’s half-hard cock was so goddamn obvious. The brunet cleared his throat awkwardly and went up the steps. 

“Fascinating. I say, old chap, you seem to have a quite perfect handprint on the back of your head.” Graham commented as they went inside. John’s stomach twisted tighter when he saw the red handprint on the back of Arthur’s head. Messy fingerprints of the same colour stained the back of his neck and along the edges of his ears as well. John quickly shoved his offending hands into his pockets. 

Meanwhile, Arthur touched the back of his head and shrugged, “Canning beets. You know how it goes. Come on in and have a seat.” 

John wanted to punch him again because there was not a single stain anywhere on Arthur’s hands. Which was because he hadn’t touched a single beet! He’d been out in the barn, feeding the animals, and brushing down Benandonner. Then he’d come inside, and slipped chilly hands around John’s waist and…

“Yes, ‘canning beets,’” Graham said knowingly, glancing slyly over his shoulder at John who blushed crimson. He looked away and went back to work on the cooling beets at the kitchen bench. 

The old man chuckled as he and Arthur sat down at the table. Beau sat beside his master, who pet him amicably. Michael Collings didn’t sit, but was pointedly studying all of the canning finished on the table top. His hat was held close to himself, protectively. Nervously. Embarrassed. Still a shade of red. Not looking at anyone.

 _Well, if the kid didn’t know before, he sure does now,_ John thought to himself irritably. Still, he didn’t think that the boy would be a problem. 

“Now don’t tell me Lenora’s stitched up another blanket for us,” Arthur drawled good-naturedly as the old man set the rolled up quilt on the table.

“It’s that time of year my friends! Lenora worries about you two up here alone all winter. She also predicts that it will be exceptionally cold this year.” Graham replied as Arthur ran his fingers over the series of triangles sewn into square patterns across the quilt. It was brightly coloured with fine stitching. “She was also kind enough to send me up with something else for you, my friends.” He chuckled, digging into his leather satchel. He produced two tightly-wound skeins of soft blue yarn and passed them over to Arthur. 

“Aw, look at these. She shouldn’t have.” Arthur chuckled, looping his finger gently through a line of blue. 

“Yes, well, she believed it would keep you tactile. I must admit, it is a somewhat satisfying pastime.” Graham tugged at his greyish scarf, “I’ve managed this at least.”

“Fine work,” Arthur complimented, setting the skeins aside, “With winter coming, John could use a new pair of mittens.”

“That’s only ‘cause _your_ dog made off with one of my old ones.” Grouched John, freshly staining his washed hands as he peeled the beets. Beau licked his chops, panting happily at the attention he was receiving.

Arthur pshawed, and slid two worn novels over to Graham. “John set these out for you,” 

“And I’ve brought him two others!” Graham laughed, digging in his bag again. John gave pause and turned in interest. He’d become a much more avid reader since meeting the Collings. And it hadn’t stopped at guidebooks for farmers.

Graham treasured books, and had a small library in his home with any book or pamphlet he could get a hold of. Some novels that he owned were sent to him by friends across the sea. Strange tales, traitorous tales, and some downright illegal.

One of the last two had been _Around the World in Eighty Days._ John liked H.G. Wells’ stories. They were fanciful and often so far apart from his own life. It had taken time for him to allow himself a little imagination. In order to really enjoy books, he had to accept that they didn’t have to resemble the world as he knew it. 

The other book Graham had most recently let them borrow had been _Joseph and His Friend: A Story of Pennsylvania_. Fanciful in a different way. It was comforting to know that there was occasionally literature about queers like him. People who knew. People who were the same way. People who defied the law and the expectations that came from it.

Some nights, John would read the borrowed books aloud to Arthur as they laid curled up together. He’d play with his lover’s blond locks as he read, stroke his hand along his spine. He’d read until his voice grew hoarse, or Arthur was quietly snoring. 

“Another one by Wells for you, _The Time Machine_. Lenora didn’t like this one. She said it was a bit extravagant. I, however, found it thrilling. And then something a little more unorthodox, _Imre: A Memorandum._ ”

When Graham described something as “unorthodox,” it usually meant “queer.”

“Eem-ray?” John asked, looking curiously at the plainly-bound pamphlet. He had to fight the temptation to reach out with his wet, red hands. 

“Yes, a Hungarian name. The main pair meet in Budapest. Dear old Fletchy said that he happened upon it quite by accident in Liverpool.” Graham explained, trading the novels on the table for the new ones. 

Arthur picked up the pamphlet, and flipped through it, “Some sorta legal drama?” He asked doubtfully, eyes skimming aimlessly. Graham shrugged, “Depends upon how you look at it.” Arthur tipped up an eyebrow and smiled softly, setting the book back down. 

“I’ll give it a read,” John said, going back to his beets. 

Arthur chuckled and gestured towards the door, “I’ve got the horses all ready. The big brute’s raring to go if you wanna do some huntin’.”

Graham nodded and excitedly stood, “Righto. Meanwhile, I suppose Arthur and I will be gone for a few hours at the very least. I thought it might be pertinent to leave John with some help.” 

There was a very apparent and confused pause. 

“Da?” Michael asked timidly. 

Apparently the boy had also been under the impression that he would be going on the hunt. 

“I don’t think,” John started, glancing over at Michael. 

But Graham blathered on, bearing no interruptions as he led the way outside with Beau at his heels.

“Oh, nonsense, old boy! You said yourself that you’re up to your elbows in canning. And I noticed that you still had some veg to harvest in the garden. Michael’s got a bit of a green thumb, you might say. And he knows his way around a kitchen. He’s been making preserves since he was the age of four. Lenora taught him well. Yes, I’m sure he’ll do just fine.” 

The old man was already striding off to the barn with Beau at his heels. “You coming, Arthur?” He called over his shoulder. “Let’s see if this beast will throw me!”

John glanced at young Michael and looked helplessly at Arthur. He too seemed at a loss, shrugging into his blue coat. With one last apologetic look, he followed after Graham, “I don’t think he will, but best take it slow!”

“Slow? Ha! Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Yes, slow. Please. You are the _oldest_ man alive.” John heard Arthur deadpan as they reached the barn. Graham hooted with amicable laughter. 

John heaved a sigh and turned back to the house. There was no convincing Graham otherwise once the old man got an idea in his head. John clapped Michael on the shoulder as he passed by. The boy was looking after his father helplessly, looking like a fish tangled in a net. 

“Welp…Roll up yer sleeves, kid. Let’s get to work.”


	2. Uncomfortable Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had a big mouth, so he always got around to saying the things on his mind. Damn the consequences. Michael, on the other hand, didn’t seem all that outspoken. He didn’t say much at all, really. But his mouth looked like it wanted to. 
> 
> It wasn’t until nearly two hours later when they set the last of the jars in the boiling pot for sealing that John finally took pity on the boy. 
> 
> -
> 
> Arthur could justify Graham bringing the kid along to be sure he wasn’t traveling alone. But usually when Graham visited, he brought one of his older sons. Theodore, or Pádraig or Sean. He could’ve allowed that he wanted to take young Michael on a hunt, but he’d left him at the homestead. 
> 
> He might have even believed that Graham genuinely left the boy to help John, but there was seldom a lack of ulterior motive for the old man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, plot-heavy. This also turned out purer than I meant it to...couldn’t help myself I suppose...
> 
> No sexual content in this chapter, but there is coarse language. 
> 
> As always, whenever I write Morston, I shorten the age gap. Just to make it less squicky.

The canning went surprisingly smooth. Michael sure did know his way around the kitchen. He seemed to know what to do and where to be before John could even direct him. It made the whole ordeal go much faster. Especially faster since Arthur and Graham took Beau with them. John didn’t have to step away from the stove to constantly glance out the window to keep the dog out of the chicken coop. Beau was a pain in the ass, but he was a good hunting dog. John hoped they’d find some pheasant. 

In the meantime, he had chores to do. And a kid to babysit. A kid who seemed to have something on his mind. 

John had been the teenager amongst adults in the gang. He knew what it felt like to not be taken seriously. Intimately, he knew the shame, frustration and nervousness that it caused. He knew something about having words to say but being too worried to actually say them. 

But John had a big mouth, so he always got around to saying the things on his mind. Damn the consequences. Michael, on the other hand, didn’t seem all that outspoken. He didn’t say much at all, really. But his mouth looked like it wanted to. His grey eyes were so expressive, full of worry. The crease between his eyebrows deepened as time went on, heavy with his thoughts. 

It wasn’t until nearly two hours later when they set the last of the jars in the boiling pot for sealing that John finally took pity on the boy. 

Picking up a cloth to wipe off his stained hands, he said, “Alright, Michael. You got something to say, go right on and say it. Yer makin’ me nervous, openin’ and closin’ yer mouth like that. Like a fish.” 

Michael looked startled by the admission. He tucked his hair behind an ear, brushing a slanting stain of red over his temple. Swallowing hard, he muttered, “I, um,”

John thought he had an inkling about what Michael wanted to say...or ask. He’d been feeling sicker and sicker with nervousness for the past two hours over it. It had been some time since his relationship with Arthur had been questioned. _Time to just fuckin’ face it,_ he supposed.

He held the cloth out for Michael to use. The boy blushed, taking it, gingerly wiping at his stained hands. He pointedly didn’t meet John’s eye, and he’d made sure not to brush fingers.

It gave the man a reason to pause. It occurred to John that maybe Graham had had ulterior motives in leaving Michael here. Perhaps he’d been too quick to think that this conversation might go the way it usually did. Filled with disgust, veiled or unveiled. Disbelief. Fear. Anger.

Perhaps Graham saw something in his child that the boy tried to keep hidden. Something of himself. Something of his friends. 

Ever eloquent, John leaned back against the kitchen bench and asked simply, “You a queer too, Michael?”

There was a long bout of silence.

To his credit, he didn’t faint like John had thought he might. 

But he did start crying. 

Which was worse. 

John watched as the boy silently set his jaw, his teeth clenching together. His brow arched up softly. Downcasted grey eyes filled with water. And he began to tremble.

_Shit,_ John thought. _Stepped in it now._

A soft, feline-like trill sounded. 

John looked down and found Miss Grimshaw. She had padded out from wherever she’d been relaxing, and was gently rubbing against Michael’s legs. Her piercing green eyes were closed as she turned about, content. Quiet and comforting. With a finesse that John knew he often lacked. He took the hint and tried to be as small and non-threatening as possible.

“Hey, Ol’ Miss Grim-paws.” John rumbled, crouching down to give her a stroke. She purred quietly, raising her body from head to rump as her human pet down her spine. 

A few wet drops landed on the back of John’s hand. So he looked up at the kid. The cloth was held tightly in his hands, knuckles turning white. Tears were silently rolling down his face, and he was finally looking John in the eye. He looked like he’d just had something ripped out of him. 

Not sure what else to do, John decided to do what Arthur might have done for him. He stood, drew the boy against his chest, and held him there.

For a long moment, Michael was frozen in his arms. He didn’t even breathe. 

John tightened his embrace a bit, and murmured, “It’s okay.” 

Then Michael let out a choked gasp. Trembling, whipcord limbs slid around John’s middle. Hands fisted themselves into the back of his shirt. Tears pooled against the base of his throat as the boy buried his face there. A shiver went up Michael’s spine, and a cracked, breathless sob escaped him. 

John shushed him, gently stroking a hand up and down the boy’s back. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he should say anything. For a long time, he just held the kid. 

“M’sorry, Mister Marston,” Michael shuddered weakly, biting back another sob, hands clutching at John’s back. 

The older man shushed the younger again. “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry about.” He wondered if that was the right thing to say. Surely, John never felt sorry about the way he was? Not anymore at least. What would he want someone to say to him if he were young and discovering himself like this again? 

He knew how Michael felt. Frightened. Hopeless. Unnatural. Impossibly lonely. 

“Ain’t nothin’ unnatural about what you are Michael. And yer not the only one.”

“People say,” the boy started weakly. 

“Well, people can go fuck themselves,” John grunted, pulling back to look Michael in his reddened eyes. Words came spilling out then, unable to stop now that he’d started. “I ain’t gonna lie to ya, it’s hard sometimes. Most folks will ignore it, pretend they don’t notice. Some’ll joke about you behind yer back, maybe to yer face. There are a fair few who might even try to hurt you. You gotta be careful. Be careful who you trust. But sometimes you find someone you can trust completely. Someone who’s just like you.” He leaned back and brushed the tear tracks away from Michael’s cheeks. “Someone who’ll love you.” 

Michael looked shocked at that. Like it was some foreign concept. “Love?” 

John chuckled, “If yer heart’s made for it, I guess, sure. Some fellers are content to just fuck and go back home to their wives. I dunno, it ain’t like that for me. Not anymore.”

The boy was back to studying John’s face, his hands settled around his waist. “So, you and Mister Morgan...?”

“Well, you don’t see a couple of wives around here, do ya?” John heaved a sigh and went to a cabinet where he kept a bottle of whiskey. He poured some of the amber liquid into the mug where he’d had his coffee that morning and tossed it back. Miss Grimshaw meowed quietly, obviously sensing the tension in the room. She had hopped up onto the table and was seated in the middle, uninterested in all of the canning, but staring judgmentally at the two of them.

Michael tentatively reached out to stroke his fingers through her brown fur. She purred in response, closing her eyes and flicking the end of her tail softly against the table. 

Meanwhile, John looked around the house. 

His eyes traveled along the walls, thinking of each beam he and Arthur had erected together. They’d bought some of the more important pieces of lumber from a mill. Otherwise, they’d spent weeks and weeks cutting trees. Many years ago, they’d begun building in the early Spring. Snow was still on the ground when they’d first set up camp. John looked to the fireplace, remembering every stone they’d laid. All of them were found in the forest, some dug from the ground, some lying about with moss growing on them. 

They’d spent months living out of a tent as they’d tirelessly built their home. John thought of the first night they’d slept under a roof that would always be theirs, next to a fireplace that would stand for years. He thought of the tender love they’d made there on the floor. Despite all of the blankets, John had still gotten a splinter in his arse cheek. Arthur had laughed at him. But he hadn’t cared. 

Chuckling, he poured out another swallow of whiskey and passed it to Michael. The boy paused, but took the tin mug between both of his large hands. John gestured around the house, “I uh, I don’t really wanna think that far ahead...but I plan to grow old and die here with Arthur Morgan.”

Michael considered this, and slowly lifted the mug to his lips. “I ‘spose I...I mean, I always kinda suspected that Mum and Da and Old Joe...but I guess I just never really thought that two men could really _love_ each other.”

John snorted. Arthur owed him so much money. “That’s ‘cause you’re a teenaged boy and you’ve got nothing on your brain except fucking.” 

The poor boy choked on the booze. 

Clapping him on the back as he coughed, John laughed. At least Michael wasn’t sobbing anymore. Choking was better than sobbing any day.

“Well...C’mon, put your coat on, kid. Let’s see if you’re as good in the garden as your Pa says you are.” 

John tied on his gun belt as the boy did as he was told, “Any good with that rifle you brought? We’ve had some bear signs around lately and I ain’t about to get mauled pickin’ pumpkins.” 

“Good enough,” Michael answered, wiping his mouth, trying to clear his abused throat. “Annabel and I still go out back to shoot cans sometimes.” 

“Well, let’s hope you’re as good as yer sister.”

The two amicably ventured outside and went to the garden. The afternoon sun had chased away the threat of rain and cast a welcome warmth over the homestead. It was getting closer to one o’clock and John was starting to feel kind of hungry. He supposed he’d get to fixing lunch after they dug around in the garden for a while. 

As they set about combing through the beans, and checking the last of the turnips and pumpkins, Michael cleared his throat. “So, um, you and Mister Morgan,” “Oh good lord,” John groaned, interrupting as he dumped a handful of beans into the basket, “You’re about to ask me how Arthur and I,” 

“No! I mean, no, but, oh hell,” Michael stammered, blushing furiously. 

Shaking his head, John glanced towards the forest trail where Arthur, Graham and Beau had disappeared about three hours ago now. No sign of them. At this point, he would welcome an interruption. He willed the two men to come back so he didn’t have to have this conversation with his old friend’s youngest son. 

“It’s just that...I...well, that is to say,”

“What, is there some pretty boy down in town that you’re having _impure_ thoughts about?” John snickered. If he had to have the conversation, he might as well enjoy it. 

“No. I mean, I wouldn’t say he’s pretty,”

“Oh, so he’s ugly then?” 

“No!” Michael exclaimed, blushing redder. “H-he, ugh…” 

“What’s his name?”

The boy hesitated and John rolled his eyes, “Go on, then. It’s not like you get to talk about stuff like this anyway.” He turned a pumpkin to check for rot, pulling up his coat collar against the crisp breeze. 

“...Cole.” 

John paused, and looked over at the boy. He’d met a Cole yesterday briefly when he and Arthur had run into Graham in town. One of Graham’s farmhands. Tall, tanned, muscular, brown eyes and short black hair. He hadn’t liked the friendly way the young man had smirked when he’d shaken his hand for some reason. Seemed kinda pompous, and out for trouble. Probably in his late twenties. 

“ _That_ roughneck? Isn’t he a little old for you?”

“He’s only nineteen,” Michael said defensively.

“ _Nineteen?_ Damn, he’s a big bastard.” John cut the pumpkin he’d been inspecting from the vine. “Seems like he’s the sort of asshole who’d start fights with a smile on his face.”

Michael sighed, brushing dirt off of a healthy turnip. “Sometimes he is, I guess. But he...he’s uh,”

“Yep. Those are those impure thoughts I mentioned,” John sighed, making a show of shaking his head. “In all seriousness though, I’d be careful around someone like him if I were you. Ain’t worth getting your ass kicked over a handsome face and a strong back. Trust me.” 

It grew quiet. At some point, John went back to digging up turnips, thinking he’d broken the boy’s heart. It wasn’t easy being queer and it was good advice. Advice John would’ve needed when he was younger. He wouldn’t have listened anyways, but still.

“I sucked him off once.” Michael said quietly. Defiantly.

“...No shit?!” John burst out laughing when he saw the way Michael steadfastly set his jaw. He wasn’t as red, but he still looked a little embarrassed. Like he couldn’t believe that he’d actually said it out loud. 

“Y-yeah. In the barn. I don’t even know what I was doing.” 

John smirked, “No one ever does the first time, kid. You get better at,” he stopped speaking with a frown. 

“Mister Marston? What is,”

“Shh.” 

There was the sound of horses approaching. But coming up from the trail that led to Whisper Ridge. The wrong direction. 

John pushed himself to his feet and looked through the trees, settling a hand warily on the handle of his gun. Two unfamiliar horses came into view. And he didn’t recognize the two men riding them. One was kind of fat in a worn plaid coat and the other was fairly thin in a grey coat. 

“I saw those two in town yesterday outside of the saloon.” Michael murmured, standing as well, holding his rifle. “Elijah said that there were seven of them staying in the inn.” 

“Hi there!” The leaner one called out with a wave. He must have seen the wary way that Michael and John were standing with their hands poised on their guns. 

“Hello.” John called back, eyeing the two men suspiciously. They didn’t get many visitors up here. The wayward saddle tramp once in a while. And if Michael was right about there being seven of them, then it was possible that things were about to get real ugly.

“Sorry to trespass! Name’s Garrett, and this here’s my associate, Adams. Word in town was that a Mister Morgan lived up here? Folks say he’s the best man to buy horses from.” The skinny one said.

“You heard right,” John rumbled loud enough for them to hear. “They ain’t cheap neither.” He added for good measure. 

“Heard that too. Mind if we come closer, uh, Mister Morgan?” The one who called himself Garrett asked, keeping his hands where they could be seen. 

_Don’t feel right._ John glanced at Michael and nodded towards the house. “Go inside. Lock the door,” he said quietly.

“I’m not leaving you,” The kid murmured.

John reassuringly patted his shoulder and muttered, “Cover me from the loft.” It was only then that Michael listened, glancing frequently over his shoulder as he went to the porch to climb the steps. 

John gestured for the two strangers to come forward. “Get off your horses.” He didn’t miss how Adams, the fat one, eyed Michael as he went into the house. A poorly-concealed sneer twisted his expression as they dismounted. A burnt out cigarette hung from his chapped lips.

John took the few seconds while they were climbing down from their horses to quickly scan the treeline around the homestead. Looking for the missing five men. He saw nothing. 

“That’s close enough, hands where I can see’em if you please.” John grunted when they got about nine meters away from him. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me, gentlemen, but I don’t know you. And one can’t be too careful living out here.” 

Garrett, if that was his real name, nodded his agreement. “Fair enough.” Probably wasn’t his real name. John knew an alias when he heard one. John had gone by “Jim Milton” for fuck’s sake,and he didn’t meet a Milton once in his life.

“So you implied you were in the market for horses.” John said, having the distinct feeling he was about to get robbed. He’d done enough robbing in his lifetime to recognize exchanged words with no real intentions. It was like an odor in the air. Something was just off.

“Yeah. One of our horses went lame, had to shoot him. Need something strong and fast to replace him. Heard you were in the habit of keeping something like that,” Garret replied with a smile. Like he didn’t have a worry in the world. Like he might not be lying. Or like he was a real smooth talker. 

“The stableman in town has some fine horses in town that I just sold to him.” John said, tipping the brim of his hat up slightly. 

“Yeah, he sold three of them already. Figured we’d have better luck going straight to the breeder himself.” Garrett said, with an unsettling smirk.

“Well, got a couple of Appaloosas that might interest you. Three and four years old. Nice and fast. Two hundred and fifty.” John replied, feeling more irritable and tense with each breath. He was waiting for one of them to make a move. For something to prove that this was going to go wrong. For the other shoe to drop. 

“Two-fifty,” Garret whistled.

“Appaloosas, eh?” Adams finally spoke up, his voice rough. He turned his head and spit, keeping the burnt out cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Townsfolk said you lived with a younger man by the name of Marston up here. Didn’t think he’d be _that_ young. Bit of a cradle-robber aren’t ya, Mister Morgan?”

Garrett snorted, looking at his companion, settling his hands on his gun belt, “Ya know, I was thinking the same thing, Adams. Marston yer pretty little cocksucker, Morgan?”

_There it is._

John only cocked an eyebrow at them as they laughed to themselves, and waited. Waited for them to make a move. 

Garrett scratched at a blond beard, smiling through a sigh, “Gotta be honest with ya, Mister Morgan, I haven’t been completely forthcoming with ya. One of our horses _did_ go lame, and we are certainly interested in your livestock, but we’re not exactly looking to _buy_...if you get my meaning.”

John looked towards the barn and the field where the horses were out to graze. Amelia was in her own paddock, lazily grazing and ignoring her cumbersome calf. He looked back to the two strangers, “Yeah, I get yer meaning.”

Garrett smiled wider and clapped his gloved hands together, “Good! Good, good. Then we’re all on the same page!” 

John shook his head, “I wouldn’t say that, Mister Garrett.”

Adams glared and rubbed at his nose, “Well, best get on the same page, old man.” His companion held out a hand, “Now, folks, there’s no one sayin’ we can’t be peaceable about this.”

John scoffed, spotting movement in the trees over Adams’ shoulder, “Peaceable robbery. Things are a bit different than they were in my day.” He was going to have to really overawe them if he had a chance of getting them to leave without firing a shot. He wouldn’t hold his breath.

“I’m sure they are, Mister Morgan,” Garret drawled, smiling. Then his hand snapped for gun. 

No such luck. This young man didn’t know who he was dealing with.

John pulled his first, yanking the hammer back before the barrel even left Garrett’s holster. 

Silence followed. Tense silence only broken by the autumn breeze through the creaking trees. 

Adams sputtered, face red and disgruntled. Garrett smiled with an awed laugh as they slowly lifted their hands. “Golly. Rumours I’ve heard about you were true, Mister Morgan. That draw hasn’t slowed down even a little bit!” 

“I like to stay sharp. So, how’s about you two and all five of your little friends get the hell off my property.” 

Garrett sucked his teeth, “I like you, Mister Morgan. Which is why I strongly recommend that you reconsider.” His eyes shifted minutely and looked past John’s shoulder. Only for half a second, but it was enough. 

A shot rang out, and echoed through the trees. 

*** 

Benandonner grunted against the wind that swept up the mountain. His tail flicked back and forth and he nickered lowly. Graham leaned forward, patting the beast’s neck, “Now, now. Steady on, dear boy.” 

Arthur, who had been leading the way back down the trail, turned in his saddle. He’d been leading the way, holding his rifle in his hands, looking for fowl. He carefully rested it over his saddle before asking, “He givin’ you trouble?” 

The old man shook his head, still stroking Benandonner’s neck. “No. Just seems a bit agitated is all.” 

Arthur looked at the doe carcass tied to the back of his own horse, Salamander. “Might be getting ornery smelling all the blood. Breeze is blowing it right into his face. Here,” he eased the reins to one side of the trail. “You go first.”

“Much obliged, old chap,” Graham nodded, taking the lead. 

Arthur scrutinized Benandonner as he lumbered past. It was the beast’s first hunt. He was taking everything well, all things considered. He was taking good care of Graham. And he’d protested only a little when Arthur had thrown Graham’s gutted eleven-point buck behind his saddle. He’d playfully nip at Beau as the dog rushed, yipping from the brush once in a while to check on them.

The horse was doing well, which was the whole point of the old man coming up to visit. 

That left Arthur room in his brain to wonder about Michael, though. He could justify Graham bringing the kid along to be sure he wasn’t traveling alone. Usually when Graham visited, he brought one of his older sons. Theodore, or Pádraig or Sean. He could’ve allowed that he wanted to take young Michael on a hunt, but he’d left him at the homestead. 

He might have even believed that Graham genuinely left the boy to help John, but there was seldom a lack of ulterior motive for the old man. 

“Graham, I been meanin’ to ask you why you rode up here with Michael? I know Lenora don’t like it when you travel alone, on account of yer _advanced_ age,”

Graham tittered at that.

“But I don’t think you can play it off like John could use the extra hands. I mean, he could, but you rarely do anything without without a reason.” Arthur rumbled, watching the back of his old friend’s head. The slim shoulders moved up and came back down as he heaved a sigh. 

He glanced over his shoulder and tipped up his hat, “You see, my friend, we don’t often talk in detail about the intricacies of our...of our nature, if you will.”

Arthur nodded in understanding, “Folks like us happen to be cautious by nature.”

“Yes, indeed. Anywho, it is much the same for my children. I believe they know, some _have_ asked me. We’ve had polite conversation on the subject and then it’s back to routine farm life as per usual. I’ve done my best to teach them to think for themselves, to allow themselves more intellect than fear. It just so happens to be a tad different with young Michael.”

Arthur patted Salamander’s neck when he shook his head. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, for one thing, he and I don’t often speak. Not for lack of my trying, mind you. The lad certainly prefers the conversation and company of his mother. And just recently, I’m afraid I, quite by accident mind you, discovered my son in a, ahem...a rather _precarious position_ with one of the lads in my employ, you see.”

“Oh.” Arthur coughed, eyebrows going up. 

“Indeed.” Graham said, sounding tired, “I have to say, I had my suspicions beforehand. They’ve been practically inseparable since Cole started working for me.”

“Cole?” Arthur asked, conjuring an image to his mind. An image of a young man tanned from farm work that he’d met with Graham on their trip to town yesterday. Big man, nearly as tall and broad as Arthur, with short black hair and big, smug brown eyes. “That feller you had with you yesterday? Sizin’ me up for no reason? Puffin’ out his chest like a turkey? If he’d said more words, I’d be under the impression that his mouth was too big for his size.”

“Oh do be fair, Arthur. We were all cocky when we were nineteen.” Graham chided.

“Nineteen?!” 

Beau came running from somewhere off to the left with an excited yip, and took the lead, tail wagging and mouth hanging open in a smile. Benandonner grunted, but otherwise paid him no mind.

Graham chuckled at the dog as well as Arthur’s reaction, “Yes. My Lenora often wonders what the boy was fed in his younger years.” The old man took off his hat and put a hand through his grey hair with a sigh, “Anywho, Michael and Cole hadn’t noticed I was there, so I made my escape unseen. Afterwards, I noticed the two were suddenly avoiding each other as much as possible. You know how it goes, old chap.”

“Yeah,” Arthur drawled in agreement, tugging at his gloves. “I know.” 

The old man gave a wistful chuckle, replacing his hat, “Michael rarely speaks to me on matters of importance. I worry about him. I thought perhaps meeting you and John, and seeing the way you live together...I don’t know. I thought it might help him. Give him some perspective. Perhaps give him some hope.”

Arthur hummed pensively. Admittedly, he didn’t always hold himself in the highest regard. He didn’t think of himself as any sort of person to look up to. But now he was some sort of queer role model for his old friend’s son? 

When it came to “unnatural acts,” hanging came to mind. As a young boy, Arthur’s father had made sure he’d seen two old queers swing. He could still remember the sickening sounds of cracking neck bones, crushed windpipes, and gagging. There were still days when Arthur worried that it would be him. 

Or worse. That it would be John. 

Huffing out a sigh, Arthur rubbed at his eyes. 

They’d tried to keep to themselves as much as possible. They’d chosen a secluded place, still within riding-distance to a town with a general store and a doctor, just in case. They used to make trips into town separately. Necessity outweighed the need, and they sometimes had to go in together. 

He and John were aware of the rumours. It was a small town, there was bound to be. A couple of folks still avoided them in town to this day. 

“How much further do you suppose?” Graham asked. 

“Not much further.”

“Marvelous! I’m beginning to feel a bit peckish.”

Benandonner nickered loudly, tail flicking as he walked. “Arthur, I do believe that this horse is also peckish and is agreeing with me! You do not feed him enough.” He gestured at the stocky muscles on the beast, “Skin and bones!”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head as Graham hooted with laughter. He was glad that he and John had him and his family as friends. After spending their youthful years living lives with little kindness, it was a refreshing change. And for the most part, people in town were kind to them as well. Friendly even. 

They were lucky. So goddamn lucky.

A pheasant broke from the brush down the trail and took flight, frightened from Graham’s laughter. 

Swinging his gun up, Arthur shot it down. Without hesitance. And with frightening speed and accuracy.

Beau barked and ran ahead to go fetch the bird. Graham clapped a gloved hand onto his thigh, “I say, Arthur, good show!”

Before Arthur could shrug off the compliment, another gunshot rang out. It cut through the trees, and cracked through the skies beyond. Another followed. And another.

Beau, with the pheasant in his mouth, stopped and looked towards the noise.

In a matter of seconds, the air was filled with nothing but gunfire. 

Coming from the direction of the homestead. 

“John.” Arthur gasped, and urged Salamander into a gallop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger!
> 
> Please comment and/or kudos! Lovely to hear from you!
> 
> Also, please no spoilers in the comments for the enjoyment of everyone.


	3. The Storm Before the Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John smiled up at him, “Never thought I’d say this, but it’s good to see you Arthur Morgan.”
> 
> Arthur paused, and shook his head, “Yer an idiot, and yer bleedin’!” 
> 
> John shook his head back at him, pulling away, “Don’t worry ‘bout me. They’re tryin’ to steal the horses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger last chapter!
> 
> There is violence and killing in this chapter. And also sexual content. 
> 
> As always I shortened the age gap between John and Arthur to make it a little less squicky.

John strained, holding the rifle back away from his throat. The man above him was _big_ and ugly, hardened from a life of harsh labour. There were wide scars around his thick wrists. It was likely he’d been imprisoned, maybe forced to work in a chain gang. 

John’s vision was still swaying from the blow the man had given to the back if his head with the butt of his rifle. The one he was currently trying to choke John to death with. 

It was likely that the weapon was out of bullets. Otherwise, he’d be dead already. 

He’d snuck up behind the old outlaw when he’d taken cover behind the corner of the barn. John couldn’t let them get to the horses, so he’d made a run for it and taken a bullet graze along his upper arm. Not too deep, but still bleeding. Michael had covered him well from the open window in the loft. 

He was currently keeping the others off of him and Chain Gang with surprising marksmanship. Amelia was mooing nearby, yelling in agitation and fear. The calf was stupidly prancing back and forth by the fence, snorting with rage. The horses were luckily keeping their distance from the gunfire.

The sound of a gunshot echoing from the forest had been the spark of flame to this fight. 

John had fired the second shot, killing the man who’d snuck around behind him while he’d been talking to Garrett and Adams. A quick shot right between the eyes. The first man he’d killed in a very long time.

He knew he’d dropped Garrett when he’d started running with two bullets in the leg. Adams had dragged him screaming into cover behind the corner of the porch. He’d shot a charging man from behind the woodshed where he’d first taken cover. Wasn’t sure if he was dead, but he wasn’t moving. 

Two of the seven were unaccounted for, but still shooting from someplace. He absolutely knew where five of them were. Three of which he was sure were unable to shoot. The dead man by the house. The one he’d dropped by the woodshed. And the one on top of him. 

John kicked his legs, bucking, trying to dislodge Chain Gang. No luck, he was so massive. And John’s arms were shaking, slowly giving under the pressure. The rifle pressed closer and closer to his throat. Chang Gang spat in his face, blinding him. 

A furious barking came into earshot just then, breaking through the gunfire. A snarl sounded close by, and a mouthful of pointed teeth suddenly came into view. Chain Gang was knocked off of John by a form covered in brown and grey fur. There was a roar of pain as the teeth sunk into his forearm. 

Driven by instinct, John quickly dragged himself backward, wiping the spit from his eyes. Struggling, he attempted to focus his swaying vision, grabbing at his pistol.

It was Beau. The dog had appeared, sprinting from the trail, and effectively body-slammed this brute of a man. To save John.

“John!” Came a familiar call, closely accompanied by the sound of galloping horses. 

Chain Gang was frantically punching Beau over and over in the head. The dog was yelping in pain, but didn’t unclench his jaw from around his forearm. 

Then Chain Gang drew a knife.

“Back, Beau! Back!” John shouted, swinging up his pistol. 

After a gunshot, blood spattered from the back of the Chain Gang’s head. Slowly, he tipped over, slumping to the ground limply. A small bullet hole had appeared in the middle of his forehead. 

The shot didn’t come from John’s firearm. 

“John! You all right?!” Arthur was suddenly there, leaping off of Salamander, his rifle in his hands. “Hah!” He yelled, sending his horse away from the gunfire. “John!” 

Throwing his back against the corner of the barn, John checked the bullets in his pistol and replenished where he needed them. Beau stumbled over, and John pet the poor thing carefully, minding the bloodied bruises and gashes. Arthur joined them there. He took John by the arm and inspected him.

John smiled up at him, “Never thought I’d say this, but it’s good to see you Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur paused, and shook his head, “Yer an idiot, and yer bleedin’!” 

John shook his head back at him, pulling his arm away, “Don’t worry ‘bout me. They’re tryin’ to steal the horses.” 

Gritting his teeth, Arthur emptied a shell and reloaded the chamber on his rifle. “How many?” 

“Three or four are still shootin’. Two are behind the West side of the house, shot one of’em in the leg. The other two, not sure. I think one’s near the wagon.”

The wood splintered on the corner of the barn, making them both jump. 

“Seems like one’s made his way behind the woodshed. Stay here,” Arthur grunted, shoving his rifle into John’s hands and taking out his own pistol, “and cover me.”

“No, don’t! Arthur, wait!” John stammered, grabbing for the back of his lover’s blue coat. But he was already making a run for it. With no other choice, John took up the rifle and shot towards the corner of the house. Towards the wagon where he believed gunshots were coming from.

Arthur had disappeared from sight. Just as there was movement behind the wagon. Another man appeared, charging through the trees towards the fenced fields. 

_The horses!_ John lined him up down the sight and shot. And he went down, a hand moving to cover his bloody side. 

Beau whimpered, and barked. 

Bile rose in John’s throat, his stomach turning as he swung his rifle towards the woodshed. Two forms appeared. One swathed in a blue coat appeared, falling backwards. Another followed in a worn, brown leather coat, clumsily wielding a rifle.

The form in blue hit the ground, hard. The black hat flew off, revealing a stream of bright red blood. Staining the freshly cut blond hair. The form settled and did not move.

An anguished scream pierced the air. Louder than the gunfire. 

It came from John. 

His world seemed to lose all colour. His lungs were tight, pulling in no air. His heartbeat boomed in his ears. Three rounds left his rifle in succession, finding their mark in the masked face of the attempted thief. 

Silence ensued as the last three shots faded away, consumed by the cloudy sky.

Garrett came stumbling from around the corner of the house. Graham followed riding Benandonner. The horse neighed and shrieked, tossing his head in a threatening manner. He brayed in rage, rearing up, kicking at the air. The thin man fell to the ground in a heap, holding a hand against his shot up leg. A belt was cinched around the thigh, stopping the blood flow. “Please, please, stop your horse! Please, Mister! I give up!”

Graham trained his rifle on him, still miraculously seated in the saddle. “Then I advise you to keep still,” He growled. To accentuate his point, Benandonner whinnied. Angrily he showed his teeth to Garrett, spitting and pawing at the ground.

Looking over, Graham saw John with a hysterical look on his very ashen face as he sprinted towards the woodshed. Beau was on his heels, whimpering and barking. “Oh no,” the old man murmured, his mouth going dry.

“Arthur! _Arthur!_ ” Tears streamed down John’s face, as he skidded to his knees beside the form in the blue coat. 

Blood spilled profusely down from the blond hair, staining his cheek, his ear, his neck and his shirt. John leaned over him, taking the face into his hands. The blue eyes were closed and still. “Oh god, Arthur. Wake up. Please!” 

The door to the house flew open and Michael came bounding out.

“I told you not to, you stupid idiot!” John exclaimed, shaking Arthur’s limp form.

Michael skidded to a stop, suddenly feeling ill as he took in the scene before him. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ leave me here alone, you bastard!” John cried. Sobbing, he buried his face against Arthur’s throat, gripping the front of the blood-stained coat in his fists. “I can’t do it, not without you,”

“John…” came a soft, breathy croak. 

Gasping, John pulled himself up, and found himself looking into blue eyes. Bruised and half-lidded blue eyes. But blue. A hand came up from where it had been lying limply on the ground to weakly grip the shoulder of John’s coat. Arthur smiled dizzily up at him, his other hand coming up to rest against his lover’s tear-soaked face. “Hey,” he murmured. 

Michael averted his gaze when John clasped Arthur’s face in his hands and firmly kissed him. The boy looked back at his father, who was still mounted on the beast of a horse, watching over Garrett who laid prone on the ground. 

Graham called, “You all right, son?” 

Nodding, Michael called back, “I’m okay.” 

***

In the fireplace, the flames were slowly eating up the blocks that Graham had placed there before taking his watch. They’d spent the remaining daylight caring for their wounds, securing the horses, throwing six bodies into the wagon and patching up Garrett.

John had been intent on killing the son of a bitch, but Graham would have none of it.

 _“There’s been enough killing, my friend.”_

There was no arguing with the old man. So Garrett would live. The bullets had gone straight through his thigh, missing the bone. But he’d been bleeding something fierce. John may have been rougher than he needed to be when cauterizing the wounds with a hot knife, ignoring Garrett’s screaming. He’d walk again...if the law didn’t hang him of course. Horse thieving and attempted murder used to be hanging crimes. John and Arthur didn’t much know how the judicial system had changed in all these years...they kept to themselves and kept out of trouble. 

After wrapping his leg, John and Michael dragged him out to the woodshed and left him tied him to a post. Graham had thrown a blanket over him so he wouldn’t freeze in the night. 

John didn’t like the situation, but Arthur reasoned with him. They couldn’t betray their old friend’s trust. 

Arthur stood silently now, warming his hands over the fire. Michael was snoring softly on the floor nearby, lying in a nest of quilts. A bit of drool was hanging from the corner of his mouth as he slept. His rifle laid on the floor beside him, just within reach. 

And then there was John.

He was sleeping in the armchair, a quilt and his gun resting in his lap. Beau was sleeping at his feet, watching Arthur, his tail thumping very quietly. The poor dog had taken quite a beating. He’d disappeared at one point, and returned with a pheasant. He’d placed it daintily at John’s feet. So he was at least moving around all right, had his faculties and didn’t have any trouble eating his dinner. Needless to say he’d been getting a lot more attention.

John’s long, mussed hair had slipped free of the cord he’d tied it back with. The light from the fire got caught under his cheekbone, and flickered over his jawline. He looked real peaceful. But Arthur could tell he was sleeping lightly. Always did after a day like today. Old habits die hard.

The blond moved away from the fireplace and towards his lover. He was so beautiful. And he’d almost lost him today. 

Reaching out, Arthur smoothed a hand over the scarred cheek. With a quiet gasp, John came to, hand tightening momentarily on his gun. Arthur shushed him, stroking his face, brushing back his hair. His lover calmed immediately when he saw who’d woken him. 

Brown eyes gazed fondly up at him. Sleepy. Quiet. Glad. Leaning into Arthur’s touch. 

They shared a long, quiet look. And then Arthur was gently cupping his chin, and leaning down to kiss him. Softly. Reverently. His lips pressed firmly back, a hand coming up to the back of Arthur’s head to keep him there.

Arthur breathed lowly against John’s mouth, “Come upstairs.”

Pulling away a little, John looked into his lover’s eyes. And then looked over at Michael.

Arthur leaned in to kiss his temple and whispered, “He’s asleep.” He took John’s hand and gave it a tug, “C’mon.”

With one last wary glance at Michael, John relented. He followed Arthur, tiptoeing up the miraculously creaky stairs to the loft, still holding his hand. Miss Grimshaw, who was lying unceremoniously across the bed, picked her head up and slowly blinked at them. The moon was close to being full, shining through the window. Where the cat lay, a quiet square of light cast onto the bed. 

“Evenin’, Miss Grimshaw,” Arthur said politely to her. John tittered. The big man was more inclined towards dogs, but he treated Miss Grimshaw with kindness, respect and a touch of fear like he would the old lady herself. She in turn would mostly ignore him, but would indulge him occasionally with affection. 

For the moment, the intuitive creature seemed to know what was going to take place. Before John could tell her to scoot, she got up with a stretch, and hopped down off of the bed. Arthur chuckled as she lifted her tail up and padded down the stairs. 

John reclaimed his attention by undoing the buttons down the front of his shirt. Blue eyes met his. Like stormy skies, or a river on the mountainside. Full with love, and gratefulness. He smiled softly and began undoing the buttons on John’s shirt. They moved slowly and carefully, undressing one another. Soft kisses placed here and there, gentle touches smoothing over their bared skin.

John gingerly kissed the edge of the bruised, stitched up gash along Arthur’s hairline. The image of him lying on the ground, unmoving, blood covering the side of his face came back unbidden. He shuddered, a dark feeling tightening in his belly. His eyes felt wet. 

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m okay,” Arthur murmured, kissing him. With a soft touch, he cupped John’s bandaged upper arm, “You okay?”

John nodded, wiping at his eyes. “M’fine, c’mere.” He pulled the blond closer, wrapping his arms around his neck. They kissed, deeply and reverently, reminding themselves of what they had nearly lost. Tongues tangled slowly over one another. Their breathing grew deeper and quicker.

The pair found themselves on the bed, lying on their sides. Holding each other. Kissing. Petting. Murmuring softly to one another. Chuckling as the chill got to them, leading them to slide under the blankets and the soft elk skin.

Once they huddled together again, John slipped his hand down between them. Arthur gasped into his mouth, tilting his hips forward. The brunet worked their cocks together, dry, on the verge of being painful. But real good. 

John laughed softly, still stroking as Arthur leaned over him to get the pot of vaseline they kept near the bed. Once he had it, the blond wrapped a firm forearm around his lover’s waist and rolled onto his back.

There was some confusion as they arranged their legs, but they eventually settled. John felt a jolt of anticipation, his cock weeping in interest as Arthur twisted the lid off of the pot. At this point in their lives, it was a learned response. 

Arthur picked his legs up and wrapped them about John’s lean hips. Using him as leverage, he adjusted his position. “Mmh,” Arthur grunted, as he reached in between them to rub and press slickly at his own entrance.

It was a bit awkward, but they were in no hurry. They weren’t going to waste a moment. Not now. Right now, they would take their time. 

Arthur gasped into John’s mouth, pressing against that spot within himself. The one that made him feel breathless, and blind. John brushed his lips under his lover’s chin, kissing at his throat. He sucked and worried the smoothly-shaven skin there. He knew firsthand what the blond was feeling. A part of him was envious. But there would always be next time.

Eventually, Arthur lowered his legs from John’s waist, sweat beading on his temple. Panting long and deep. Dipping his fingers into the vaseline one last time, he nudged John’s hand away from their pricks. With sure, agile fingers, he slicked up his lover’s cock. 

“C’mere,” Arthur murmured, pulling John down to kiss with a hand clasping the back of his head. With one last nip, he pushed at John’s hip in anticipation and rolled onto his side. 

John followed after, laying down on his side behind him. He scooted as close as he possibly could, snaking one arm under and around Arthur’s strong chest. He kissed his shoulder, and carefully guided his cock inside of him.

A soft little groan left Arthur. He reached a hand back and wrapped around John’s arse cheek, slowly pulling him in. The brunet whimpered against his ear, and wrapped the other arm about Arthur’s waist. 

He was so warm and tight inside. Slick and silken. Clenching every so often as John began to ease back and forth.

And then Arthur sighed, turning his head for a kiss. His lover obliged him. The blond sucked his lip into his mouth, groaning quietly. The blankets had slipped down a bit, and a chill settled on their upper bodies. 

Arthur pulled them back up to their shoulders and wrapped his hand around John’s at his waist. Their fingers wove together, holding firmly. Another sigh left him and then he gasped. The girth of John always stole the breath right out of him. His lover didn’t let up, his thrusts long, slow and pressing deeply. 

Where John relished being treated roughly most of the time while being taken, Arthur for the most part was the opposite. The big man preferred gentleness to roughness. When John took him, he wanted it tender. He wanted to be made love to.

After the life he’d lived, John thought him more than deserving of soft love-making. He loved it. Loved the quiet sighs. Loved being inside of him like this. Loved him. With every fibre of his being, with every beat of his heart.

Arthur stifled a moan, his hips jerking as John’s fat cock slid back and forth over his sweet spot. “John,” he breathed, shuddering at the next deep thrust. 

“Ohhh, god, Arthur,” John groaned when his lover began angling his hips back to meet his thrusts. His arms tightened around him, holding him as close as he possibly could. He never wanted to let go. If they could lay together in the bed they’d built for the rest of their days, John would be a happy man. If he knew nothing but the muscles in Arthur’s back, his powerful legs, his shapely arse, his calloused hands, his soft, dark blond locks of his hair, his rumbling groans, his blissful sighs, and his exceptional cock...John would be content. 

Not for the first time, John wished he was better with words. He was no poet. He couldn’t spin words to properly demonstrate how much he cared for Arthur. The blond would probably laugh at him and tease him if he tried, anyway. But John loved him. And he believed he’d been so close to losing him that day. 

Arthur had similar thoughts. Hearing the gunshots through the trees? He’d felt as if he’d left his stomach behind on that trail when he’d urged his horse towards the homestead. Everything they’d built together, threatened. Everything that they were together, in danger. 

When he’d seen that giant bastard on top of John…heard Beau barking frantically as he’d sprinted ahead…the gunshots...

“Thought I was gonna lose you,” Arthur shuddered, squeezing John’s hand.

“Shhh, I’m here,” John breathed against his ear. “I’m okay, and I’m so glad you’re okay,” he grunted. Arthur turned his head and kissed him over his shoulder. He couldn’t help sighing against his mouth when the brunet reached down to stroke his neglected cock. They moved together as long as they possibly could. The need to release was a slow hill to climb. Their passion pent up with sweat and glorious friction. 

Eventually, though, the pressure that had built up finally snapped something in them. Arthur closed his mouth to stifle his gratified moan as he began to spill over John’s hand. In turn, John pressed his face against Arthur’s shoulder, rutting into him a bit faster, trying to follow. “Ohh, my god, can I come in you?” He groaned, still gently cupping his lover’s half hard prick. 

“Yeah, c’mon John. Wanna feel you. Wanna feel you come off inside me,” Arthur panted, his head feeling full of clouds and electricity as he was still floating from his release. He reached down to rub carefully at the head of his cock, just under the ridge. Knowing he could wring another few waves of pleasure out himself. John stroked his thumb cautiously up and down his shaft, still squeezing the blond’s hand. 

His breathing was erratic now. The muscles in Arthur’s legs jumped as he followed along, riding out the overstimulation. Welcoming the pearly beads he worked from himself until John gasped and tensed up with a whine. Then a wrung out sound came from his chest. The brunet shuddered against his lover’s shoulder, hips jerking as he finally came off. 

Arthur‘s body was pushed to release again, into his own hand this time. John’s thick cock was pressing over his sweet spot. Filling him with his love, his death, his devotion. 

He couldn’t help but weep. 

After a long moment of ragged breathing, John slowly came to himself. “Hey, hey, Arthur. Sweet, did I hurt you?” He panted worriedly, stroking an unsure and wet hand up the blond’s belly. 

“No, no,” Arthur replied, holding his lover still by the hip. Refusing to let him pull away, to pull himself out of him. He turned to kiss away the fearful frown. His tears dampened John’s cheeks. “M’just happy, darlin’. That’s all. That’s all,” he reassured him. 

They lay there that way, until the warmth and stickiness became uncomfortable. They climbed wearily from bed and lovingly washed one another with the cold water from that morning’s wash basin. They didn’t mind. Running the cold cloth over each other’s skin. Leaving kisses here and there. They slid back under the blankets, and curled up in each other’s arms amongst the linen sheets. 

Arthur lay on his back, sleepily stroking his fingers through his lover’s long, dark hair. Gently combing through the tangles. John’s fingertips idly played with the dark blond tufts, still as enticing as this morning. 

“Love you,” he breathed, feeling settled.

Arthur chuckled.

“What?” John asked, his eyes still closed.

“We’ll see if you can still say that tomorrow when you gotta face Graham’s boy. Kid could barely look us in the eye this morning after I sucked you off.” Arthur whispered back. 

“Oh, shut up.” John rumbled. 

“Can’t imagine what he’ll be like if he overheard us makin’ love tonight,”

“I said shut up. Asshole.” 

Arthur chuckled again, “I love you too, darlin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and/or kudos! Lovely to hear from you!
> 
> Also, please no spoilers in the comments for the enjoyment of everyone.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and/or kudos! Lovely to hear from you!
> 
> Also, please no spoilers in the comments for the enjoyment of everyone.


End file.
